Gideon Reed had barely removed his snow-covered coat when five-year-old Toby whispered something that made the mountain man turn pale.

“Tell her about the lady in the cellar, Papa.”

Maeve felt the warmth drain from her face.

The cellar?

For three weeks, she had cleaned every corner of Gideon’s cabin. She had scrubbed the floors, repaired the curtains, and washed the children’s filthy bedding.

But she had never seen a cellar.

Gideon stood motionless beside the door.

“Toby,” he said quietly, “go sit with your sister.”

The boy tightened his grip around Maeve’s wrist.

“No.”

It was the first time Maeve had heard him openly defy his father.

Gideon’s expression changed.

Not anger.

Fear.

“Please,” Gideon whispered.

Maeve rose slowly.

“Don’t ask him to leave. He has already spent too much of his life being frightened.”

Gideon looked at her for a long moment.

Then he lowered himself into the wooden chair beside the hearth.

“There were three women before you,” he admitted.

Maeve’s stomach twisted.

“Three?”

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“Mrs. Bell came first. Then Martha. Then a young woman named Ruth.”

“What happened to them?”

Gideon stared into the fire.

“They left.”

“All three?”

“Yes.”

“And the children believe you sent them away?”

His silence was answer enough.

Maeve glanced toward Toby.

The boy was watching his father with an expression no five-year-old should have known how to wear.

Distrust.

“Why did they leave?” Maeve demanded.

Gideon rubbed his hands together.

“Because they discovered something about this house.”

A sharp sound interrupted him.

Three knocks.

Not from the front door.

From beneath the floor.

Maeve froze.

Tess immediately covered her ears.

Toby crawled backward until his shoulders struck the wall.

Gideon rose so abruptly that his chair toppled.

“Stay here.”

He crossed the cabin and lifted a heavy iron kettle from beside the hearth.

Underneath was a narrow wooden hatch.

Maeve had scrubbed that very spot two days earlier.

She had never noticed the iron ring concealed beneath the ashes.

Gideon pulled it open.

Cold, damp air rose from the darkness.

“Who’s down there?” Maeve whispered.

Gideon took a lantern from the mantel.

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“Someone who should have been gone years ago.”

He descended the wooden steps.

Maeve waited.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Then she heard a woman’s voice.

Weak.

Raspy.

But unmistakably alive.

“You brought another girl here?”

Maeve’s heart began pounding.

Gideon answered too quietly for her to hear.

Then the woman spoke again.

“Does she know what Amos did to her mother?”

Maeve staggered backward.

Her mother?

Her mother had been buried six winters earlier.

At least, that was what Uncle Amos had told her.

Before Maeve could move, Gideon emerged from the cellar.

His face had lost all color.

“Maeve,” he said, “there’s something you need to understand.”

She pushed past him.

The cellar steps were steep and narrow.

At the bottom stood a small room lined with shelves, preserved vegetables, and old wooden crates.

A woman sat on a narrow bed.

Her silver hair was braided over one shoulder. A thick wool shawl covered her frail body.

She looked to be about sixty.

When she saw Maeve, she began to cry.

“Oh, my sweet girl.”

Maeve stopped.

“Who are you?”

The woman held out trembling hands.

“My name is Eleanor Whitcomb.”

Maeve recognized the surname.

Whitcomb.

Her mother’s maiden name.

The woman swallowed.

“I’m your grandmother.”

Maeve felt the room tilt.

“That’s impossible.”

Eleanor shook her head.

“Amos told you I was buried beside your grandfather, didn’t he?”

Maeve couldn’t speak.

“That man has been lying to you since you were twelve.”

Behind her, Gideon descended the stairs.

Maeve spun toward him.

“You knew?”

“Not when I brought you here.”

“Then when?”

“Three nights ago.”

Maeve backed away from both of them.

Her grandmother reached beneath her mattress and withdrew a small leather pouch.

Inside was a silver locket.

Maeve recognized it immediately.

Her mother had worn it every Sunday.

She had searched for it after the funeral.

Amos claimed it had been stolen.

Eleanor opened the locket.

Inside was a tiny photograph of Maeve as a baby.

On the opposite side were six words scratched into the silver.

“THE LAND BELONGS TO MY DAUGHTER.”

Maeve stared.

“What land?”

Eleanor’s voice trembled.

“Nearly four thousand acres. Timber, pasture, and the richest silver vein in Red Creek.”

Maeve shook her head.

“We were poor.”

“No, sweetheart. You were made poor.”

Above them, something crashed against the cabin door.

Gideon grabbed the lantern.

Another crash followed.

Then a man’s voice thundered from outside.

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“GIDEON REED! OPEN UP!”

Maeve recognized that voice.

Uncle Amos.

Gideon extinguished the lantern.

In the darkness, Eleanor seized Maeve’s hand.

“Listen carefully. Your uncle didn’t trade you for two mules because you were worthless.”

She leaned closer.

“He traded you because he discovered you were about to inherit everything.”

A gunshot shattered the cabin window.

Upstairs, Tess screamed.

And Maeve realized that the man who had sold her had come to make sure she never learned the truth.